


Texting under influence

by Snoozydog



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Dating, Drunk Texting, Implied Sexual Content, John in Denial About His Sexuality, M/M, Mycroft being a little jealous, Oblivious Sherlock, One-sided John Watson/Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Pining John Watson, Secret Crush, Sexual Tension, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:08:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21561982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoozydog/pseuds/Snoozydog
Summary: Texting while drunk is never a good idea to begin with. When you’re doing it to tell your flatmate how you really feel about him, it’s probably even worse. Especially if said flatmate is spending the night in someone else's bed.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson- one-sided
Comments: 24
Kudos: 94





	Texting under influence

John stumbled through the door, more unsteady on his feet than expected. 

He hadn’t really drunk that much, had he? 

A few beers, nothing more. Well perhaps a little more than just a few, but considering the evening he had just endured, who could blame him?

The living room was empty when he managed to turn on the lights to see more clearly. 

It was just as messy as when he last saw it but there was a significant presence missing that had been there when he left, lounging on the sofa, dressed in his silky blue nightgown, nurturing a full-on strop. 

At least that ordeal was over.

John had fled from the flat a whole hour earlier than strictly necessary just to escape the bemoaning of his flatmate. There was after all only so much he was willing to take, and a snarky man-boy with the mind of genius but the disposition of a teenager, bored out of his mind and fingers itching to do some mischief, was definitely too much to handle. Especially when trying to concentrate on the date he was about to embark on. 

It was his third date this week actually. Not that it had made any difference in the end. 

Already before the main course had arrived, she had been decidedly frosty and quiet, not even remotely resembling the sunny woman she had been when he had asked out on a date the previous week.

This always seemed to happen to him. 

Women who he hit it off with when initially meeting them suddenly turned sour and stand-offish around the second or third date. It was beginning to look like a bloody curse and this time he had decided to wallow in his misery by heading for the pub instead of going straight back home to listen to Sherlock lament over the fact that he even bothered with dating in the first place.

“You don’t really need a woman in your life. You have everything you need right here. You’re just too slow to realise it.”

“I most certainly don’t have everything I need, Sherlock! I know this might come as a surprise to someone who claims that anything to do with sex is beneath him and not his area, but us mere mortals actually crave it, and I for one am not willing to go without it for the rest of my life, just because you somehow have managed to put up an "out of order"-sign on that particular part of the human physiology.”

“There is nothing out of order with my physiology, John. What a ridiculous assumption.”

“Well you could have fooled me. Because going through life not needing any sort intimacy ever, frankly, can’t be very healthy.”

“Mycroft says....” Sherlock began and John interrupted him by groaning loudly.

“Case in point. Whoever decides to take advice from a man with the coldest disposition in the whole country, should honestly ask for a refund, because they are obviously not getting the opinion of an expert.”

“And you’re the expert then, are you?”

This was usually when their arguing spiralled out of control until the next time the subject of John’s dating habits resurfaced, which had been happening quite often lately as John’s desperation to find someone meant that he asked more people out than he ever had before. 

John blamed their arguing partly on Sherlock’s incessant need to point out the futility of spending hard-earned money on wining and dining when it clearly wasn’t going to lead to anything beyond a kiss. 

But he also blamed this newly developed tension between them on his own much neglected sex drive that had not been blessed with much exercise for the last couple of months. Not since moving into Baker Street in fact. 

That Sherlock was somehow to blame for these circumstances was undoubtful, and initially John could actually pinpoint the exact moment when this became a reality.

It was when he brought his dates home after dinner, in the hopes of getting them to spend the night. One brief encounter with his acerbic flatmate was usually all it took to get them to backtrack out of the flat and not be heard from again.

But as he no longer brought them home but instead hoped to be invited to their place, things still didn’t go according to plan, despite the absence of Sherlock.

Sure, it could be claimed, as a few of the women had actually pointed out with a hint of annoyance to their voices, that Sherlock, while not physically present, certainly was so in spirit, considering the way John kept going on and on about the man. But surely he didn’t talk about him all the time? 

Did he?

It was just that so much of his life consisted of things related to Sherlock, it made it difficult not to touch upon the subject while talking about other things. They did after all live together and spent a considerable amount of time in each other’s company, not only when working cases but also when just lounging about at home, going about the domestics of flat sharing. 

Even the people they normally surrounded themselves with were more or less shared acquaintances, like Mike Stamford, DI Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly Hooper and God forbid, Sherlock’s frightful brother who had the bad habit of dropping by every now and then unannounced, and occupy their flat with his overbearing presence. 

John had never warmed particularly to the man and he felt quite certain that the feeling was mutual, even if no words were ever exchanged openly on the subject. 

So, to summarize the situation, John’s life intertwined with Sherlock’s on several levels and how he was supposed to dodge this fact when out on a date, was beyond his capability. He couldn’t very well just sit there and talk about locum work, could he? 

It would make him look like a bore. Sherlock had to be addressed at one point or another, anything else would have seemed odd.

One woman even had the gall to claim that John talked about Sherlock as if being married to him, weaving his presence into every topic of conversation, a claim John himself had found quite absurd. He no longer recalled the name of this woman, but he distinctly remembered being annoyed by the accusation and had even told Sherlock about it afterwards. 

Sherlock had naturally not been listening too closely and had only waved it off as insignificant in the end. But it wasn’t insignificant if this string of failing dates still kept happening. 

And now he could add yet another botched-up date to the already growing list.

And Sherlock wasn’t even here to hear all about it. 

John stumbled further into to living room and plopped down on the sofa with a grunt. 

He really was a little out of it he realised. The room had the unfortunate habit of spinning a little whenever he opened his eyes and he tried to remember how many beers he ad actually ordered back at the pub. 

Four? Seven? Counting the glass of wine he had started the evening off with and the lack of proper food in his stomach as his date had chosen to call it quits before the actual food had arrived, it was no wonder if he was perhaps feeling a little tipsy.

As he was making himself more comfortable on the sofa, he couldn’t help but let out a snort when considering how pathetic his life had become if he actually wished that he had just stayed in with his stroppy flatmate instead.  
A flatmate who apparently must have dashed off on a case as he was no longer here.

A case was infinitely better than a boring date with.......?

He actually racked his brain trying to figure out what the name of his date had been, but realised that he had no idea. Maybe Sherlock’s tendency to delete things that he deemed unimportant was beginning to rub off on John as well? 

He was hardly going to see this woman again so why did it matter what her name was? Not a bloody thing, that’s what!

He opened his eyes to scour the room from his position on the sofa, taking note of the Belstaff coat being absent from the peg on the door, the blue nightgown discarded in a heap on the floor, naturally meant for someone else to pick up or to be picked up by Sherlock again only when he needed it. 

Beyond that, everything looked as it had when he left. 

No clues to where Sherlock could have gone off to.

With a surprising pang of realisation, it suddenly hit him that he actually missed Sherlock terribly, despite cursing the man’s very name earlier at the pub. 

Sure, he was an infuriating nuisance of the worst kind and quite frankly a terrible flatmate when it came to all the domestic chores that flatsharing consisted of.  
But he was also the most interesting, mesmerising, captivating not to mention sexiest man John had ever encountered

His mind actually took a few seconds to realise the odd sort of description that had sneaked in between the other personality traits his brain had provided him with.

But in his drunken state he found that he didn’t necessarily disagree with what his subconsciousness was trying to tell him. 

It was after all no secret that Sherlock was considered very dashing by many people, with his unusual looks and his flair for the dramatic. He certainly knew how to present himself favourably, even when lounging about in just a t-shirt and dishevelled curls. Sexy was just another word for it, right?

Well, technically no. 

Sexy implied something else, didn’t it? It took his flatmate’s good-looking appearance and put it into an area that sexualised him rather just staying in the category of admiring someone from afar. 

If Sherlock himself had been here he would have provided a very good answer to that, probably being able to go into the smallest details regarding the difference between the word sexy in comparison to simply dashing. 

Well, luckily he wasn’t here to know anything about it, thank you very much. John was hardly in the mood for a lecture on anything, least of all about why he had used that particular word when thinking about his flatmate.

But it was true though, wasn’t it?

Sherlock actually was very sexy. 

His body was trim, slim waist, broad shoulders, pert little bottom, often on display beneath the fabric of his very tight trousers, whenever unknowingly bending over on a crime scene to look at something a little closer. John was hardly the only one sneaking a look at it when it happened. 

Then there was that enviable set of hair, looking so silky to the touch and very Byronic. How someone was blessed with curls like that was just beyond John’s understanding, and when comparing them to Mycroft’s thinning tresses it became even more incomprehensible. 

And lastly but definitely not the least, there was that pouty mouth of his that simply begged to be kissed. Or to be wrapped around all kinds of intimate body parts.

John actually startled at the image. 

This was definitely taking things a little too far. No wonder people assumed they were a couple if these were the kind of thoughts he secretly harboured when no one was around and his inhibitions were allowed to loosen up. Just imagine what a few beers could apparently conjure from the depths of his subconsciousness!

But if he was quite honest with himself, this wasn’t exactly the first time that such an image had popped up inside his head. 

It had happened a few times before, along with some other intimate images of Sherlock’s body spread out in different positions and in a varied degree of nakedness.  
Having a flatmate who cared nothing for modesty while in the company of others had given him plenty of material to work with.

Just thinking about this actually made his cock twitch, reminding him that this was usually the reaction he had when burying himself in decidedly inappropriate fantasies that, ever since moving into Baker Street, had invariably been about Sherlock. 

The first time it had happened, John had felt utterly mortified and also nervous that Sherlock was going to find out. Nothing could put a dampener on a friendship the way one friend lusting after the other without reciprocation , could do. 

But when Sherlock didn’t notice and things just trudged on like before, John couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed.

Because he would never dare to personally say anything about it, but if Sherlock somehow deduced the truth he wouldn’t deny it either. 

Many were the night when he had woken from dreams involving himself engaged in sexual acts with his oblivious flatmate, sometimes rock hard inside his boxers, his cock throbbing painfully, begging for release, and he had been forced to sneak down to the bathroom, half-wishing that Sherlock would catch him in the act, while simultaneously dreading it. 

What Sherlock would say exactly, if he was to catch John taking a cold shower in the middle of the night, or wanking frantically in his room, that was the million-dollar question. 

And as John sat there on the couch, feeling himself getting more stiff while thinking about it all, wondering what Sherlock actually would say if he ever found out how John really felt, his thoughts went from idea to actual decision in his alcohol-befuddled mind, and with a sudden determination he decided that this was a subject that no longer deserved to stay in the shadows of obliviousness but actually needed to be addressed directly. 

If it did turn out that Sherlock wasn’t as averse to the idea of more than just friendship as John had always assumed, ( and in his half-drunken state, this actually seemed like a possibility), it also meant that he could put his own personal dating hell to rest and get the much needed sexual release from someone he actually wanted and had lusted after for quite some time now.

The fact that Sherlock had quite clearly made a point of telling him that he wasn’t interested in anything beyond sharing a flat, back at Angelo’s on their very first night together, had always been the one key obstacle that had caused John to hesitate when considering his options. 

On the other hand, things had progressed a lot since then. Surely words spoken when first meeting someone couldn’t be hold accountable forever?

The problem now was of course that Sherlock wasn’t here to hear any of John’s sound reasoning. 

Wasn’t this so very typical? When John for once was the source of excellent ideas, no one was around to listen to them! 

He actually contemplated stomping down the stairs to wake Mrs Hudson up and make her take part of this new insight he had just had. She was bound to be very pleased; she was after all one of the most ardent fans to the idea of her tenants being engaged in a sexual relationship. She always had envied Mrs Turner her married ones next door.

But no, Mrs Hudson could wait. There was someone more important that needed to hear this. 

With fumbling fingers and some grunting noises, he managed to pull his phone from his back pocket. Staring at it, he contemplated what exactly it was that he wanted to say.

It wasn’t that he automatically became particularly dim while under influence, if anyone would have asked him directly, he would on the contrary have argued that he never was as brilliant as when a little drunk. 

A more sober John Watson might not necessarily have agreed though, and perhaps a small part of sensible John still existed under the acholic haze that was his current state, because suddenly he realised that if he just decided to call Sherlock and tell him about this great epiphany he had just had, Sherlock would not be able to look past the fact that John was clearly very drunk and whatever he said would therefore not be taken seriously.

Besides, when out working a case, Sherlock never picked his phone up to answer incoming calls, if anything, it was bound to make him irritated for being disturbed.

No, John had to be more tactical.

A text then.

Yes, that would suffice.

Nothing in a text to indicate that he was perhaps a little under influence, he could choose in advance what to say and he had the medium of pictures if words failed him. It was frankly genius!

Operating the intricacies of the phone as if dealing with the trickiness of a Rubik’s cube, he finally managed to scroll his way to the letter H as in Holmes and pressed it so he could begin texting. 

As most people who ever had the experience of texting while drunk would readily confirm, it was not as easy as it seemed, and John managed to send four different text before he felt satisfied that he had made his point come across. 

With a gleeful grin he let the phone slide down to the floor while burrowing his face into the fleur-de lyse pillow lying conveniently next him, just to rest his head upon it while waiting for Sherlock’s response. 

He closed his eyes in contentment while thinking about what he had just done and felt a warm flood of anticipation pool the lower part of his abdomen before drifting off to the oblivious sleep of the utterly drunk.

*************** 

Mycroft was panting profusely as his head rested against the upholstered pillow in his four-poster bed, his heart beating frantically inside his chest, unused as he was to excessive exertion. 

A glean of sweat was covering his naked body and as he stared up at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath, he could sense a tongue licking a trail from his slightly curved belly across his soft chest, all the way to his neck where the tongue was replaced by a succulent pair of lips doing their outmost to take in the taste of Mycroft’s damp skin.

“Sherlock, please, I need to catch my breath for a minute or two. You just brought me to the most breath-taking orgasm a moment ago, I think my body might need some time to recover before we continue on to something new.”

Sherlock removed his mouth from where he had been sucking on the sensitive skin of Mycroft’s neck and raised his head to meet his older brother’s, looking at him from beneath the unruly black curls falling down over his forehead in a jumble. 

Mycroft was always struck by how lucky he was to be allowed views like this one, Sherlock looking positively mouth-watering, and if Mycroft hadn’t spoken the truth when asking for a short break to catch his breath, he would have leaned in and claimed those swollen lips his brother displayed, kissing them senseless. 

Well, the night was long after all, there was always time for that later.

Sherlock sighed impatiently, and rolled away from him, pouting like a child deprived from a precious toy.

“Your stamina clearly needs some work, brother,” he said. “Maybe I should come by more often and put you through one of my gruesome exercise routines. I think it could be beneficial to both of us, me enjoying whipping you into shape, you enjoying....well, me.” 

A wicked grin revealed that he felt very pleased with this suggested arrangement. 

“How droll.“ 

Mycroft rolled his eyes but there was a shadow of a smile on his lips and he turned so he could reach his hand out and pull his unruly brother’s head down to rest against his chest, savouring the moment when he had the most previous thing in his life as close as humanly possible to where his heart was still rapidly beating.

Despite Sherlock’s obvious impatience, this was actually one of Mycroft’s secret guilty pleasures. 

The sex had the advantages of heightened gratification of course, but the moment afterwards, when he was allowed to just lie there, feeling Sherlock coming down from the rush of adrenaline next to him, it was the test of true intimacy. It was what made these rare occasions more than just meeting up for sex.  
If the word didn’t have such a blatantly sappy ring to his ears, he would have called it the essence of love. As it were, he settled for just enjoying it, without bothering to put a label on anything. 

This blissful tableau was unfortunately short-lived as a phone, discarded on the bedside table, alerted to an incoming text.

Sherlock immediately lifted his head from the comfortable position to reach for it but was firmly pushed back down again.

“Don’t you dare move when I finally have you exactly where I want you.”

Instead Mycroft, with a small grunt, managed to reach the phone by stretching his arm as far as he could.

“Besides, it’s _my_ phone and you know what I think about you snooping through it, looking for secrets. Your incessant naughtiness never has been a particularly becoming habit, little brother. It can cause you to end up in all sorts of .... _trouble_.”

Sherlock just cocked his eyebrow at the innuendo but didn’t reply. The glint in his eye told Mycroft that he was secretly pleased though.

Content to have pacified his brother a little, he turned his attention to the phone to look at the text that had disturbed their peace.

A second later a frown marred his features.

“What is it? The prime minister not knowing how to put his pants on without instructions?” Sherlock waspishly mumbled as he closed his eyes, while stifling a yawn behind his elegant hand. Their previous activities had perhaps taken their toll on him as well. 

Mycroft kept staring at the message, unsure of how to reply to his brother’s question.

“No,” he finally said, tearing his eyes away from the screen but still clearly confused. “This is actually something much more....unexpected.”

Sherlock snorted at this, but as he opened his eyes when no further explanation came forward, he noticied the puzzled features on his brother’s face.

“Who is it?”

“It’s from John Watson. “

“ _John_?”

Sherlock immediately raised his head again and was rewarded by being pushed down once more, this time even more firmly. 

“Thought that would catch your attention,” Mycroft said with a hint of sharpness. 

“No need for any pointless jealousy, Mycroft, as I have told you on numerous occasions, we are merely friends who occasionally solve crimes together and share the rent. “

Mycroft pursed his lips at this.

“I think you might want to evaluate that assumption, Sherlock.”

“Why? What does he say?”

“That he wants to know how your lips feel around his cock....At least I think that’s the point he is trying to make. There is a surprisingly high number of spelling mistakes in such a short text. “

Sherlock widened his eyes in bafflement. To render him speechless was one of those rare things that seldom happened and for this text to have managed to do it now, spoke volumes about his obvious bewilderment. 

When he finally did speak, he didn’t say what Mycroft would have anticipated though. Sherlock had apparently decided to look at it from totally different angle, ignoring the actual part of his flatmate wanting to put his cock in his mouth.

“Why on earth is he sending something like that to _you_ of all people? Does he have a death wish?”

Before Mycroft had the opportunity to reply, a pinging sound alerted them to the arrival of a new text.

“Oh, goody, it’s from Dr Watson again,” Mycroft dryly remarked as he opened it up.

Sherlock shook his head, his curls bouncing in confusion along with his movements.

“What is going on here? He was supposed to be out for the evening on one of his pointless dates. What’s he doing texting you for?”

Mycroft put the phone down to meet his brother’s eyes.

“My guess is, considering the content, that he thinks he is texting you.”

Sherlock’s arms immediately flew up in the air in frustration as he for the third time rose from his position. This time Mycroft allowed it.

“That’s ridiculous! He has never done anything like this before, never given so much as an inclination of wanting.... _that_.”

Mycroft looked at Sherlock’s perplexed features. It sometimes amazed him how someone as smart as his little brother could also be so utterly clueless. 

“What does the other one say?” Sherlock said, trying to reach for the phone to look for himself. Mycroft moved it out of touch before replying.

“Oh, he has moved on from your tongue now. Apparently, he wants to touch your…..firm tight _arse_ as he so eloquently put it. “

“Oh....I, see.....”

Ping.

Sherlock stared at the phone as if mesmerized by the content it was providing them with.

“John again?” he asked.

“It would appear so yes. The subject is your cock now. Preferably buried in….. _his arse?!_ ”

There was a flash of actual ire in Mycroft’s eyes now, his nostrils beginning to flare in anger.

Sherlock tried to placate him by putting a soothing hand on his arm.

“Oh, calm down. There is obviously some mistake going on here. He would never...”

Ping.

This time Mycroft actually gasped and dropped his phone as if it had greatly offended him.

“What now? Let me see!” Sherlock tried to sneak his hand out to grab it, but Mycroft immediately pushed it away.

“You most certainly may not!” he said sternly.

“It can’t be worse than the previous one, about me sticking my cock in his arse.”

“Oh believe me, it is!”

“Show me then!”

“ _No_.”

“If you won’t tell me what it is, I’m stepping straight out of this bed and walk away.”

Sensing the real threat behind these words made Mycroft relent with a weary sigh.

“You can’t see it, but I’ll let you know what it is, alright?”

Sherlock nodded affirmingly but his arms were now crossed over his chest, clearly still annoyed at being bereft of seeing the exciting content on the phone. Or disturbing content more likely, if Mycroft’s reaction was anything to go by. 

“It is picture of what I assume is his penis. It is rather blurry and too close up for absolute clarity. But still, I would definitely claim that it is a man’s genitals.”

The brothers both contemplated this unexpected image in silence. Mycroft was the one who finally broke their state of shock, putting the phone back on the bed table, as no further messages seemed to be coming.

“Considering the state of his vocabulary I would wager that he is either properly drunk or suffers from a head trauma. Not sure which one I prefer quite honestly,” he said.

“Mycroft!”

Despite the disturbing turn of events, Sherlock apparently didn’t like his brother to take jabs at the his flatmate’s expense. 

Although not happy about it, Mycroft acknowledged this wish by backpaddling a little.

“I am only teasing, brother mine, no reason to get so testy about your … _friend_.”

“Why use that suggestive emphasis on the word? He _is_ my friend.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in astonishment over his brother’s naiveté. 

“He clearly wants more than just your friendship, Sherlock. And alcohol has apparently loosened his tongue significantly.”

Sherlock contemplated this for a second, biting his lip absentmindedly while doing so. It was quite an endearing look in Mycroft’s opinion.

“He is going to be utterly mortified when discovering who he actually sent these texts to once he sobers up,” Sherlock finally said in a surprisingly pitying tone.

Mycroft only snorted at his brother’s willingness to feel sympathy for his flatmate.

“Serves him right. He has no business hankering for another man’s property.”

This comment earned him a sour glare.

“We have talked this before, you know. I’m not _actually_ your property. You can only say such things in the bedroom.”

“Lucky then that we are in fact still in the bedroom.”

And with that Mycroft snaked his arms around his younger brother’s slender form and pressed a possessive kiss upon his lips. 

The twitch of interest from his cock told them both that he was ready for round two, sexual texts and drunken flatmates quickly forgotten as he showed his brazen brother that there still was some stamina left in his body and he was ready to put it to some very good use.


End file.
